A Place at the Table (13 page)

Sometimes I imagine being homeless in New York. Wandering the streets looking in old trash cans for leftovers to eat. It could happen, Meemaw. I have no college degree, no safety net.

But I sound ungrateful. That’s the last way I want to come across. It still makes me teary to think of you sliding that envelope filled with cash across the table at The Colonnade, after I had finished my turkey dinner and you your chicken livers. That was the night you told me about the time you left Daddy and June with your mama and took the train to New York City to spend the week with Granddaddy Banks before he was shipped off to Europe from Jersey City. You told me about being intimidated by the fancy ladies, and eating at Schrafft’s and being served a butterscotch sundae that was the most delicious thing you ever put in your mouth. You told me that all those years later you could still remember how exciting it was to be in Manhattan, how tall the buildings, how elegant the people: the men in their hats, the women in their white gloves. You told me that not only did New Yorkers impress you with their elegance, but they seemed to have a shared sense of adventure. And then you told me that while you would miss me “like the dickens,” you thought New York City might be the perfect place for a “special, creative boy” like me. Then you slid that envelope across the table, and I opened it, and it was filled with cash.

Five thousand dollars. Five thousand dollars is a lot of pound cakes sold. A thousand pound cakes, except no, more than that, because that doesn’t account for the money you put into each one, the money for butter and eggs, sugar and flour, pure vanilla extract. And then you tithed, didn’t you, Meemaw? Gave ten percent of your profits to the church. So really, Lord knows how many pound cakes you had to bake to earn five thousand dollars of profit. Two thousand?
Two thousand pound cakes slid raw into the oven, and pulled out golden and fragrant?

When you gave me that money, did you realize how soon after I would go? Did you think I might first finish up my degree at Georgia State? I bet you knew I would leave as fast as I could. I bet you knew that I was bored with school, that I was lonely, that I needed a change, something drastic. Your intuition was always so good, Meemaw. Like how you knew I was in trouble that night I got caught with Pete Arnold. (He didn’t even show up for your funeral, Meemaw. I thought he might.) Maybe your intuition let you know you didn’t have long left in this world and so you slid that cash over to me while you were still here to see my reaction. Which was to cry. Just break down and cry because you slid my freedom to me. Much as I loved living with you, I guess we both knew I couldn’t keep doing it forever.

The next day I called a travel agent and booked a one-way ticket to LaGuardia Airport, and you told me that a lady at your church knew of a residence hotel where young men new to the city could stay, at least temporarily, and I phoned up there and booked a room for the first two weeks, thinking surely that was long enough to find an apartment. (Ha.) And then the week before my flight was to take off, you died. Died while planting petunias, getting ready for spring. Your heart just stopped, they said, and you fell over sideways onto the ground. You had been sitting on that little stool you used to wheel around while you gardened, to soften the impact on your knees. Mrs. Reid from next door said she looked out the window and there was Miss Millie mounding dirt around her flowers, and then she blinked, and there was Miss Millie, fallen to the ground.

Meemaw, did you plan it? Did you plan to die right before I left so I would be forced to see Mama and Daddy one more time? Lord. You always got your way, didn’t you? That’s what Mama always said, that you were all sweet and soft on top but a master manipulator underneath.

I know Daddy would have liked for your funeral to have been at his church, but of course it was held at Second Avenue Baptist. And the place was packed. I hope you know that. So many people rose to speak in your honor. Lord knows how many people you touched during your lifetime. Small gestures adding up to a lifetime of service. That’s how your pastor described it. So many gestures were recalled: how you would bring a tuna noodle casserole to anyone in your neighborhood or your church who had a hospitalized family member, or a death in the family, or a new baby. How you always offered to feed a neighbor’s cat or water a neighbor’s plants when they were away on vacation. How you brought cut flowers all summer long to the elderly black lady who lived down the street from you, who was isolated and alone in her house, whose only company, often, was yours. How you baked your pound cakes with such love and care, and didn’t charge your regular customers for their cake during their birthday week. How you kept account of people’s birthdays.

I had my own story of appreciation to tell, Meemaw. But I remained quiet. Sat silently with my brothers, a Banks boy again. Hunter had driven down from Athens and Troy had driven up from the Medical College in Augusta. After the funeral service Mama opened the house up to anyone who wanted to come by. She served several of your pound cakes, pulled from the freezer and defrosted. She served the cakes with berries sweetened with sugar and Cool Whip. Eating my slice made me think of communion, Meemaw. Because you were in the sweetness of that cake. Because I could taste your love when I ate it.

My flight to New York was only three days later. I was so afraid of chickening out, of not going, that I didn’t change my ticket. I went to your house and packed up my belongings, as well as a few things of yours that I wanted for sentimental reasons, including your old metal tube pan and a picture of the two of us from when I was five years old or so, sitting on your lap on your front porch swing. I left
the rest for Mama and Daddy to deal with. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe I should have stayed and made sure nothing important was thrown away. But I knew if I stayed I might not ever leave. I might be too weighted down by grief. So I took that flight on Eastern Air Lines to LaGuardia, ate my little bag of peanuts and drank my Coca-Cola while looking out the tiny window at the clouds below. And then we descended, and I saw the city’s skyline, and all of a sudden I realized, I had moved. I had left my home and moved here. I gathered my possessions from the baggage claim, slinging my duffel bag from the Army-Navy store over one shoulder and holding your old burgundy Samsonite suitcase in my opposite hand, shivering already though I wasn’t even outside yet. I took a shuttle to Grand Central Station, where I joined the crowds, alone. Hoping—at that moment, at least—that you were watching.

(New York City, Summer 1981)

T
oday I filled out an application at Bloomingdale’s, dreaming of working in their gourmet shop, though willing to work in any of their departments. I’m not, however, holding my breath for an offer considering that the woman who took my application barked, “Who do ya think I am, your grandma?” after I called her ma’am.

Leaving Bloomingdale’s with no prospect of employment, I vowed not to obsess over what might happen if I can’t find a job, if I spend all of Meemaw’s money and have nothing to fall back on. I will not think of how vulnerable I am, of how many jobs I’ve been turned down for so far. Instead I will relax my clenched heart by looking for other men, men like me. It’s easy to tell who they are. For starters, they have bodies shaped by hours at the gym and they wear their shirts a little tighter to show off their muscles, an extra button undone at the collar. They wear their jeans tighter, too, the fabric around the crotch a little worn, a little frayed, the result of taking a
wire brush to them, just to rough them up in the right places, a trick my friend Mike showed me my second night at the hotel.

Mike taught me other things to look for, too: an earring in the right lobe, a wallet attached to the belt with a chain, a leather jacket or vest—not that many would brave leather in the New York summer heat. I have heard that there are handkerchief codes, too, different colors of handkerchiefs worn in the back pocket indicating different turn-ons. That’s a little more advanced skill set than I have, but I can sure recognize a fag when I see one. If I spot an especially attractive man, sometimes I will follow him, see where he goes. Make a mental note of the place, vowing to return later.

I head south on Third Avenue, deciding I’ll check out Beekman Place, which runs between 51st and 49th Streets. I want to see if I can find the town house where Auntie Mame lived. I’ll never forget watching that movie with Meemaw. It came on
The Late, Late Show
, and while Meemaw did mutter a few “oh my’s” and “mercies!” during Mame’s more drunken moments, she and I both loved it. Once I moved up to the city, I realized that practically
every
gay boy worshiped Auntie Mame and the actress who played her, Rosalind Russell.

Walking, I am reminded for the thousandth time of how much I love this city, despite its crime, its expense, its hardness. In tandem with the trials are daily jolts of inspiration: the Chrysler Building coming into sudden view; the fruit vendor I frequent who always gives me extra grapes or an apple; the way the setting light hits pink against the Hudson River at dusk. Just as I reach 51st Street, a young woman with cheekbones like cut glass and Mia Farrow’s pixie haircut—the one she wore in
Rosemary’s Baby
—swishes by, heading west. I turn to stare as she walks away. Could she
be
Mia Farrow? It’s certainly possible. On impulse, I follow the woman, trying to figure out if she really is the famous actress. She turns the corner at Second Avenue, and I, realizing I’m an idiot to trot after a (maybe) famous
person as if I’m some slack-jawed tourist, turn and head back toward my destination.

That’s right, Bobby, don’t be an idiot chasing after Mia Farrow. Instead stalk the home of a fictitious character from an over-the-top movie. Lord.

So wrapped up am I in my self-chiding that I almost walk past the “Help Wanted” sign hung from a hook on the front door of one of the town houses on Fifty-first. But then I backtrack, realizing what it is I have seen.
Café Andres
is embossed on the wooden door, above the sign.

This is not a home but a restaurant.

I run my fingers through my hair. It feels just like Daddy’s used to, thick and rough and curly. I dab my pointer finger with a little spit and smooth down each eyebrow, first the left, then the right, then slide my nail sideways through the space between my front teeth, hoping to dislodge any food that might have gotten stuck there. Usually I carry mints in my pocket, but when I reach for them I feel only the crumpled remains of a Certs wrapper.

Opening the town house door, I walk down a little flight of stairs and then across a marbled hall that smells of dust and long-enclosed air. At the end of the hall is a swinging door with a smoked-glass mirror. I push it open, finding myself in another world. The whole interior is lush with furnishings; many, like the life-sized marble statues positioned about the place, seem to have no purpose other than to charm. Everywhere you look there is an object taking up space: an upright piano in the corner, cake plates stacked atop each other on the bar, whirling fans overhead, a parrot observing the whole scene from a swing in the corner of the room. Billie Holiday’s recorded voice pipes in from hidden speakers. The scene gives me the sudden desire to drink cocktails and lounge. Not that there is anyone to lounge with. At three o’clock in the afternoon, with the exception of a formally dressed woman with a prominent brow seated at a corner table, the place is empty of customers.

As I walk toward the bar the parrot on the swing squawks, “Stella!” As if summoned, an impeccably groomed man shoots out of the kitchen through the swinging door and rushes to greet me. He has a full head of silver hair. He wears a crisp white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, tucked into a pair of light blue trousers, surely a linen and cotton blend. His braided belt, made of white cotton, wraps around his slender-as-a-girl’s waist. On his feet are blue Sebagos, just a few shades darker than his pants.

“Hello, hello!” he calls. “Please, sit anywhere you like. Would you like to know our menu or are you simply craving a drink to relieve you from this heat?”

With his tanned skin and dark eyes, he looks Mediterranean. But his accent, faint though it is, sounds Eastern European.

“I’m actually here because of the ‘Help Wanted’ sign,” I say.

He smacks the palm of his hand against his forehead in a theatrical fashion. “Tsk, tsk, I was supposed to remove that, wasn’t I? Unfortunately, the position is filled. And anyway, I was looking for an assistant in the kitchen, practically a line cook, and I’m sure you want front-of-the-house work, don’t you? Heaven forbid we hide a face like yours in the back.”

The fact that there was recently an opening for a chef’s assistant is almost too much for me. Five minutes ago I did not know this place existed; suddenly it feels as if my birthright has been snatched away, like Jacob tricking Esau, though I don’t even have a bowl of lentils to show for it.

“You’re a hundred percent positive it’s filled?” I ask. I step just a little closer to him, make eye contact. “Because I have training, as a chef.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire. My only training comes from Mama and Meemaw.

“Oh yes, Jose is already hard at work julienning vegetables and prepping chickens to roast for tonight’s dinner. But come, sit; there’s
no reason I can’t conduct a little informal interview, get your telephone number, et cetera, et cetera. That way if anything ever does come up I can give you a call.”

I have no telephone number save for the front desk at Good Shepherd, but I am nothing if not good at avoiding questions I don’t want to answer. I follow him to a small, round table near the entrance where he says he can keep an eye on things.

“May I get you a drink? Coffee, tea, perhaps even a sherry?”

“A drink sounds lovely,” I say, patting my pocket with my hand. “But I left my wallet at home.”

“Well then,” he says, arching his eyebrows, “you shall have to be doubly entertaining.”